He was possessed of a powerful frame, being full six feet in hight, and was clad in a hunter’s garb, consisting of shirt and breeches made of skins.
In his girdle was placed an ugly-looking knife. His head was adorned with a fur cap that hung down over the upper part of his face, which gave him a somewhat singular appearance. His hair was coarse, matted, and fiery red.
As he proceeded on his way, his conduct to any observer would have appeared decidedly suspicious. Every now and then he would stop and listen attentively, and after casting a searching glance about him to satisfy himself that no one was following him, he would move on again.
The night was quite dark; an easterly wind, accompanied by a chilling dampness, gave unerring notice of an approaching storm. But the traveler, heeding it not, pushed on with long strides, until at length he reached a mysterious-looking hut standing at the foot of a hill and hemmed in with large rocks and stunted oaks, whose foliage nearly concealed it from view.
Here he stopped and gave a peculiar whistle. The door was cautiously opened, and an armed man appeared at the entrance.
“Hank!” said he, in a whisper.
“Here, chief—open th’ door,” answered our friend, Hank Putney, the scout.
The door was now thrown wide open to permit the traveler to enter, and then closed and securely barred. The two men uttered no words of greeting, but approaching one side of the room, they sat down before a half-extinguished fire.
“You must be nearly chilled through, Hank,” said the man. “Here, take some of this,” and he handed the scout a flask.
Putney seized it with avidity, and placing it to his mouth, took a deep draught.